20-04-2073 | 06:20 UTC
Polish–Belarusian Front, Podlaskie Region
The snow had stopped falling an hour ago, which meant the roads would harden soon.
Paweł Kaczmarek stood over a folding table inside a half-collapsed logistics tent, his gloves off despite the cold. The map was already dirty with boot marks, grease stains, and blood. He no longer bothered wiping it clean because the dirt returned faster than any cloth could manage.
"The Third battalion gets priority on ration & ammunition, especially 5.56 and 7.62," he said, tapping a pencil against the paper. "They burned through twice the expected rate last night."
A young lieutenant hesitated before speaking. "Sir, that leaves—"
"That leaves the second battalion hungry," Paweł interrupted in a controlled tone. "Hungry soldiers complain, but soldiers with empty rifles die."
He turned toward the quartermaster. "Rations?"
"Two days, maybe three, if we stretch."
"Don't stretch," Paweł replied. "Rotate. Hot meals to the front tonight and cold packs tomorrow. Morale is more valuable than calorie counts."
The men acknowledged his orders quickly, writing notes, saluting, and leaving the tent one by one. The system worked, perhaps too smoothly.
Artillery fire could be heard from a distance, low and rhythmic, indicating Belarusian probing fire rather than a full barrage.
They were always probing.
When the tent finally emptied, Paweł leaned forward with both hands resting on the table. For a brief moment, he allowed exhaustion to surface.
Poland was not officially at war. Belarus was not either.
The bodies along the border suggested otherwise.
He stared at the thin blue line drawn across the map, a line created by people who would never stand on this ground, never smell burning propellant mixed with diesel, and never count ammunition crates as if they were lifelines.
Proxy war, they called it.
A word chosen to make dying sound distant.
Paweł pulled his gloves back on and stepped outside. The wind cut through his uniform sharply, carrying the smell of smoke from the eastern side of the border.
While observing the faint columns of smoke rising in the distance, a thought crossed his mind.
I don't know how things are going in the UN.
20-04-2073 | 14:05 UTC
United Nations Headquarters, New York City
"They speak of legality while violating every principle this organization was founded upon."
The Russian representative's voice echoed throughout the Security Council chamber. He spoke without raising his tone, which made the accusation feel heavier.
The French representative leaned forward, her fingers locked together as tension tightened her jaw.
"Your forces are embedded in Belarus," she replied. "You can deny it, but the intelligence confirms it beyond doubt."
"Intelligence," the Russian representative responded calmly, "has become an extremely flexible concept in recent decades."
Murmurs spread across the chamber as delegates exchanged looks.
The French representative did not withdraw. "Flexible or not, Europe will not pretend this escalation is accidental."
"Escalation?" he asked with a faint smile. "Poland mobilized first."
"That is a lie."
"It is a response."
The gavel struck the desk sharply.
"Order," the Secretary-General said, his voice already carrying fatigue.
Ignoring the interruption, the French representative continued. "This Council cannot function if permanent members treat it as political theater."
The Russian delegate turned toward her fully.
"This Council," he replied, "stopped functioning the moment it mistook restraint for weakness."
The chamber fell silent.
Delegates checked their devices, whispered to aides, and stared at casualty figures that were already outdated by several hours.
Outside the building, protests grew louder. Inside, arguments continued without resolution.
No resolution passed.
No condemnation was agreed upon.
No action was taken.
The French representative leaned back in her seat, fully aware of what everyone in the room understood but refused to say aloud.
The United Nations still existed in structure,
but in practice, it had already collapsed.
20-04-2073 | 23:41 UTC
Polish–Belarusian Front, Forward Trench Line
The night was completely dark, without moonlight or visible stars, as thick clouds covered the sky and prevented any natural illumination. The cold had seeped into the boots through earth, it also entered deep into the bones, making every movement slower and more deliberate.
Shallow white coloured breaths were coming out in quick instances as the soldiers controlled their breathing between bursts of gunfire.
The trench smelled of cordite and oil, the sweat infused damp soil was adding an extra layer to this smell, making the air feel heavy and unpleasant.
Four Polish soldiers were positioned along the trench line, rotating between firing and reloading. The red glow from overheated machine-gun barrels on both sides illuminated the battlefield intermittently, briefly revealing broken wire, torn earth, and bodies lying motionless in front of them.
One of them fired a short burst and lowered his rifle.
"You know," he said quietly, "if we ever make it into Belarusian territory alive, I'm not coming back poor."
Another soldier checked his magazine. "You won't even survive the border."
"I'm serious," the first continued. "They lost too many men. The government legalized polygamy and started paying people to marry and reproduce."
A brief pause followed as incoming fire struck the trench wall.
"That's desperation," someone muttered.
"I could actually do it," another voice said calmly.
They turned toward him.
"You?" the first asked. "You don't even speak Belarusian."
"I do," he replied. "Perfect accent. Learned it before the war."
The conversation ended when a sharp buzzing sound cut through the noise.
"Drone," someone said.
The kamikaze drone struck the trench wall seconds later.
The explosion collapsed the trench inward, throwing earth, fire, and debris in all directions. The protective structure was destroyed instantly.
Belarusian machine-gun fire followed without delay, targeting the exposed position.
"Move!" someone shouted.
The soldiers scrambled out under open fire.
Two of them were hit and fell almost immediately.
The man who said he could do it landed hard on the ground, mud and blood filling his mouth. He spat both out and forced himself forward.
"We can't stay here," he shouted. "We're pinned."
He looked toward the Belarusian trench, which was close enough for muzzle flashes to be clearly visible.
"We charge," he said.
"That's suicide," someone replied.
"Staying is worse," he answered. "Drop the machine guns. Rifles only."
They discarded the heavier weapons and moved.
Gunfire intensified.
One soldier fell before reaching halfway.
Another collapsed seconds later.
The remaining two continued forward, firing continuously while closing the distance.
They reached the enemy trench and jumped inside through a firing loophole where a Belarusian soldier lay dead.
Inside the trench, Belarusian soldiers continued firing toward the opposite direction, unaware that enemies had already entered their position.
They fired toward every muzzle flash they saw.
Several men fell before anyone understood what was happening.
The man leaned close to his buddy and spoke quickly. "They don't know. We can take this trench."
They continued moving forward.
Then a body rose suddenly from the ground, something metallic flashing briefly in the darkness.
A detached bayonet pierced into his buddy's side before either of them could react.
His buddy collapsed immediately, blood soaking into the trench floor.
"Michał!" he shouted with what little strength he had left, his voice breaking in pain and fear.
Michał reacted instantly. In anger and shock, he fired at the attacker until the body stopped moving.
He turned toward his dying buddy and took a step forward, trying to reach him in the darkness.
Before Michał could reach him, multiple hands grabbed his body from different directions. Someone seized his neck, others grabbed his arms and torso, pulling him backward.
The sudden restraint was caused by the shout of his name, a foreign name that did not belong to anyone in that trench.
He struggled briefly, but blows followed soon after.
Consciousness faded before he could say a single word.